Kalahari Read Free Page A

seemed shabby and odd. I moved between him and my “room,” feeling far too exposed.
    We didn’t normally get visitors, and though I used to love seeing new faces around to break up the monotony of my remote life, lately it seemed as if every new face I saw only reminded me of the one face I loved most, the one face I would never see again.
She would have known what to do with them.
    Sam brushed his fingers over a delicate dream catcher hanging from the poles that crossed at the apex of the canvas roof. “Nice place.”
    “Thanks. We can handle the rest of the boxes,” I said.
    “Nah, I don’t mind.” His smile was easy and quick, like a strike of lightning. He picked up a book from my small folding desk and stared at the cover; it was a copy of
Dreams of Afar
,
the memoir my mom had written about our family’s travels.
    His lips twitched as if he was about to say something; then he put the book down and moved on.
    As he slid past me and back outside, I pulled the papers out of my pocket and scanned his file again. Sam Quartermain, from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Age: seventeen.
Favorite animal: wolf.
His statement for being here simply read
Keeping a promise.
There wasn’t much else, besides his medical needs (none) and allergies (peanuts).
    When I reached the Cruiser, I saw that Dad had stopped unloading the boxes and was occupied with the radio on the dash. The incoming voice, fuzzy with static, could only be from Henrico, the South African warden stationed south of us. He was the only human within communicable distance of our camp, unless we used the heavy, awkward satellite radio that was currently gathering dust in the back of the truck.
    Dad’s face was thunderous; whatever Henrico was saying had gotten him unusually riled. My dad was normally as easygoing as they came.
    “Theo, what is it?” I asked. The Bushman made a shushing noise. He was also listening in. I stepped closer, trying to overhear Henrico’s words, but at that moment Dad said into the speaker, “I’ll look into it and let you know. Give a call if you hear anything more.” He dropped the radio onto the seat of the car and turned to me, his face flushed.
    “Sarah. There are reports of poachers in the area. A white lion’s been spotted just west of here, and Rico thinks they’re after it.” The mere mention of poachers sent my dad into a blind rage. I didn’t know how many times I’d fallen asleep at night listening to him rant about the declining rhino population, the uselessness of antipoaching NGOs, the apathy of the world toward the cause. Only my mom’s death had elicited a stronger emotional response from him.
    My heart dropped. “Dad. Dad, no—”
    “It might be the same outfit who slaughtered those rhinos up in Chobe last year. They slipped past us once—we can’t let them do it again.” Dad had spent the better part of that month helping Botswana’s antipoaching unit track the poachers, only to lose their trail in the end. The poachers had cut right through the area we’d been researching, and Dad had been angry about it for months, swearing that he wouldn’t let it happen again.
    “Dad,
please
,” I said, leaning into the word, “you promised you wouldn’t do this. Not after—We had a deal, remember? We stay together. Always.”
    Dad paused, the crusader’s fire fading from his eyes. “I remember, kiddo. You’re right. But if this is the same crew . . .”
    I sighed, seeing the anguish in his eyes. I’d been the one who’d drawn that promise from him, terrified as I was that the past would repeat itself and I would lose him too. But letting the poachers slip away again would wreck him.
    “Promise me,” I said slowly, wilting beneath my own sense of guilt, “you won’t get involved. You’ll just find them and send their location to the government. If you don’t see anything by dark, come home, okay?”
    Dad’s face relaxed into a grateful smile. “I swear. Cross my heart.” He drew an